Letters from the Other Side of the Rain.
DISCLAIMER: All poetry found herein is, like all poetry, based on true fiction.Friday, March 31, 2006
Dear Humanity,
My sestina addiction has worn off. It's sonnets, now. I wrote two last night. Also, a short story about Sweeney Todd and a girl of indeterminate identity. The girl of indeterminate identity will be a constant in her own series. I shall call them the GOII series, because acronyms are nice. For questions regarding the identity of the GOII, please see disclaimer.
And now, the sonnets.
Poor Butterfly
Poor butterfly, poor butterfly, flying
Alone to Mecca or Jerusalem.
Poor butterfly, to loved ones goodbying
You cannot stop your flight to embrace them.
Poor butterfly, poor butterfly, who lost
The one to whom she'd given all herself
Poor butterfly, who did not know the cost
Who must now put her joy upon a shelf.
Poor butterfly, poor butterfly, waiting
For a change in the wind, from frigid gusts
Poor butterfly, naught is her thirst sating
Patiently she struggles on, as she must.
Poor butterfly, poor butterfly, won't cry
Or even sigh. What now, poor butterfly?
Sophisticated Lady
Sophisticated lady, sophisticated lady, where
Did you get that dress drenched in diamond booze
And what of the jewels? And why do we care?
Sophisticated lady, smear your rouge.
Sophisticated lady, sophisticated lady, you
Got to go out tonight, make an entrance
You're the life of the party, can't be blue
Sophisticated lady's gotta dance.
Sophisticated lady, sophisticated lady, when
You're tearing up the floor, you'll be okay
Or at the very least, you can pretend.
Sophisticated lady, whatya say?
Sophisticated lady, perfume on.
Pretend it doesn't matter that he's gone.
Also, a sort of Pledge of Allegiance. Sort of.
Sledging's Obeisance
Please stand.
I plead ebuliance
Two queens, ragged
In a mighty state of hysteria
So hyperbolic, the witches stand
A consumnation, under sod
Life unlivable
In kibbutsing and mustang's
Thrall.
You may be seated.
Sweeney Todd and the Girl of Indeterminate Identity
"Hello," said the girl, and stepped inside.
"Hello," said Sweeney Todd. "Have you come to make an appointment for your father?" She shook her head, mouse-brown hair stiffly rustling. "Or perhaps you have a young man needing his first shave, eh?"
"I haven't got a young man," she replied, "or a father, really. If I did I wouldn't be here. No, what I want is different. I want somewhere to sit and sew, and a place by the fire, and a person around who doesn't chatter like teeth on a cold London morning." She shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her thick black coat.
"Please, have a seat," said Sweeney Todd.
"Who's she, then?" asked the gentleman in the barber's chair.
"Oh. She's my apprentice," answered Sweeney Todd absently, mixing the lather.
"A girl? A young little girl?" The gentlemen looked up, alarmed. "'Ey, Mister Todd. Is there something nasty going on 'ere?"
Sweeney Todd glanced at the girl sitting on the chest of drawers. She was embroidering. It seemed to be all she ever did, save scribbling in a tiny memorandum book. Reminding herself to - what? He did not know.
"Of course there is nothing nasty," said Sweeney Todd, and slit the gentleman's throat.
It had been a long time since the girl had materialized on Sweeney Todd's doorstep, gripping, white-knuckled, her embroidery ring, her body buried inside the thick black coat that never came off. Sweeney Todd sometimes idly wondered what there was beneath that coat, but he didn't say a word.
It had been a long time, and now the girl was standing in front of him with a piece of cloth, upon which was unexpertly embroidered the alphabet, and the numbers one through ten. "It was my first," she said. "I was losing myself between the stitches. I did it to be doing it, not to have done it. But here it is, if you want it."
Sweeney Todd did not move. "You want something of me in return," he said.
"True," she replied. "I do not give without reciprocation. I learned that lesson only recently."
"What do you want, then?"
"Teach me how to. . ." Her eyes flickered over the blood on the floor from this morning's customer. ". . .shave men."
Sweeney Todd looked at the girl for a long time. He looked at her face. Strong and metallic, but fearful and soft about the mouth. He looked at her body with the dispassionate of one who has become assexual through grief. She was not beautiful. But she was - what was the word? The same had applied to Mrs. Lovett. Raw. Undiluted.
Sweeney Todd cocked his head. "Why do you want to learn that?"
"Because. . ." She swallowed the words, then managed to get them back. "Because I fell in love. Because I was taken in by an illusion, that took in the illusionist as well. Because even though the illusion is smoke and mirrors, I still believe in it. Because that illusion was the realest thing I ever knew. Because even though outside the illusionist is gone, he isn't gone inside of me."
"Very touching," said Sweeney Todd.
"Don't mock me," said the girl.
"I wasn't," said Sweeney Todd. "Do you remember what it felt like to be held?"
"I have a memorandum book," replied the girl, and opened it to an early page. As she reread it, Sweeney Todd watched her cheeks redden. "I'm afraid it's a bit high color to read out. . ."
Sweeney Todd's laugh was deep and rumbling, like jovial boulders crashing in an alarming fashion. "Don't worry. I know. And I know that that's what you want back. But you cannot have it." He watched her small face harden. "You cannot. You want to hold a corpse, to feel its warmth - they stay warm for a while, you know - you want to feel hot sticky blood run down your -"
"STOP!" She screamed, rising convulsively from her seat on the chest of drawers. "That's disgusting. That's inhuman."
"On the contrary," said Sweeney Todd. "It is uniquely human."
He walked to the window. An organ grinder was playing in the streets, his monkey dancing on a collar. "Would you like to go down and see the monkey, girl? Girl?" He suddenly realized that he had never asked her name. It had not seemed important. Indeed, she had not seemed to have a name. She had not seemed like a name-having sort of person.
She seemed to know his thoughts. "Don't worry," she said. "Even if you knew it, you couldn't pronounce it. I think that I should like to see the organ grinder. Give me a penny, Mr. Todd, and I'll give you my embroidery."
"All right," he said. "The gentlemen might as well have something to look at as they're. . .shaved."
She laughed then, a sound like a bicycle horn, and turned down the steps, tossing the embroidery over her shoulder. Sweeney Todd flipped the coin towards her, and she caught it. "Goodbye, Mr. Todd."
Sweeney Todd did not say anything. Instead, he listened to her clatter down the stairs, and watched through the window as she lobbed his coin to the grimy organ grinder's equally grimy monkey, who did a tiny dance of pleasure. Then, Sweeney Todd began to tack the embroidery up on the wall, where all his customers could see.
The girl knocked the grimy slush of her boots. "I didn't realize it was snowing," she said to the organ grinder, feeling thankful for her thick black coat. "When I went in there it was summer."
"You go een," said the grimy, obviously foreign organ grinder, "who the fuck knows wheen you come out ageen?"
"Good point," said the girl.
"Where you goeeng now?"
"I don't know," said the girl.
"One more questeen."
"Make it quick."
"How old are you?"
She gave a weak smile. "As old as my tongue," she said, "and a little older than my teeth."
With love,
Kat
My sestina addiction has worn off. It's sonnets, now. I wrote two last night. Also, a short story about Sweeney Todd and a girl of indeterminate identity. The girl of indeterminate identity will be a constant in her own series. I shall call them the GOII series, because acronyms are nice. For questions regarding the identity of the GOII, please see disclaimer.
And now, the sonnets.
Poor Butterfly
Poor butterfly, poor butterfly, flying
Alone to Mecca or Jerusalem.
Poor butterfly, to loved ones goodbying
You cannot stop your flight to embrace them.
Poor butterfly, poor butterfly, who lost
The one to whom she'd given all herself
Poor butterfly, who did not know the cost
Who must now put her joy upon a shelf.
Poor butterfly, poor butterfly, waiting
For a change in the wind, from frigid gusts
Poor butterfly, naught is her thirst sating
Patiently she struggles on, as she must.
Poor butterfly, poor butterfly, won't cry
Or even sigh. What now, poor butterfly?
Sophisticated Lady
Sophisticated lady, sophisticated lady, where
Did you get that dress drenched in diamond booze
And what of the jewels? And why do we care?
Sophisticated lady, smear your rouge.
Sophisticated lady, sophisticated lady, you
Got to go out tonight, make an entrance
You're the life of the party, can't be blue
Sophisticated lady's gotta dance.
Sophisticated lady, sophisticated lady, when
You're tearing up the floor, you'll be okay
Or at the very least, you can pretend.
Sophisticated lady, whatya say?
Sophisticated lady, perfume on.
Pretend it doesn't matter that he's gone.
Also, a sort of Pledge of Allegiance. Sort of.
Sledging's Obeisance
Please stand.
I plead ebuliance
Two queens, ragged
In a mighty state of hysteria
So hyperbolic, the witches stand
A consumnation, under sod
Life unlivable
In kibbutsing and mustang's
Thrall.
You may be seated.
Sweeney Todd and the Girl of Indeterminate Identity
"Hello," said the girl, and stepped inside.
"Hello," said Sweeney Todd. "Have you come to make an appointment for your father?" She shook her head, mouse-brown hair stiffly rustling. "Or perhaps you have a young man needing his first shave, eh?"
"I haven't got a young man," she replied, "or a father, really. If I did I wouldn't be here. No, what I want is different. I want somewhere to sit and sew, and a place by the fire, and a person around who doesn't chatter like teeth on a cold London morning." She shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her thick black coat.
"Please, have a seat," said Sweeney Todd.
"Who's she, then?" asked the gentleman in the barber's chair.
"Oh. She's my apprentice," answered Sweeney Todd absently, mixing the lather.
"A girl? A young little girl?" The gentlemen looked up, alarmed. "'Ey, Mister Todd. Is there something nasty going on 'ere?"
Sweeney Todd glanced at the girl sitting on the chest of drawers. She was embroidering. It seemed to be all she ever did, save scribbling in a tiny memorandum book. Reminding herself to - what? He did not know.
"Of course there is nothing nasty," said Sweeney Todd, and slit the gentleman's throat.
It had been a long time since the girl had materialized on Sweeney Todd's doorstep, gripping, white-knuckled, her embroidery ring, her body buried inside the thick black coat that never came off. Sweeney Todd sometimes idly wondered what there was beneath that coat, but he didn't say a word.
It had been a long time, and now the girl was standing in front of him with a piece of cloth, upon which was unexpertly embroidered the alphabet, and the numbers one through ten. "It was my first," she said. "I was losing myself between the stitches. I did it to be doing it, not to have done it. But here it is, if you want it."
Sweeney Todd did not move. "You want something of me in return," he said.
"True," she replied. "I do not give without reciprocation. I learned that lesson only recently."
"What do you want, then?"
"Teach me how to. . ." Her eyes flickered over the blood on the floor from this morning's customer. ". . .shave men."
Sweeney Todd looked at the girl for a long time. He looked at her face. Strong and metallic, but fearful and soft about the mouth. He looked at her body with the dispassionate of one who has become assexual through grief. She was not beautiful. But she was - what was the word? The same had applied to Mrs. Lovett. Raw. Undiluted.
Sweeney Todd cocked his head. "Why do you want to learn that?"
"Because. . ." She swallowed the words, then managed to get them back. "Because I fell in love. Because I was taken in by an illusion, that took in the illusionist as well. Because even though the illusion is smoke and mirrors, I still believe in it. Because that illusion was the realest thing I ever knew. Because even though outside the illusionist is gone, he isn't gone inside of me."
"Very touching," said Sweeney Todd.
"Don't mock me," said the girl.
"I wasn't," said Sweeney Todd. "Do you remember what it felt like to be held?"
"I have a memorandum book," replied the girl, and opened it to an early page. As she reread it, Sweeney Todd watched her cheeks redden. "I'm afraid it's a bit high color to read out. . ."
Sweeney Todd's laugh was deep and rumbling, like jovial boulders crashing in an alarming fashion. "Don't worry. I know. And I know that that's what you want back. But you cannot have it." He watched her small face harden. "You cannot. You want to hold a corpse, to feel its warmth - they stay warm for a while, you know - you want to feel hot sticky blood run down your -"
"STOP!" She screamed, rising convulsively from her seat on the chest of drawers. "That's disgusting. That's inhuman."
"On the contrary," said Sweeney Todd. "It is uniquely human."
He walked to the window. An organ grinder was playing in the streets, his monkey dancing on a collar. "Would you like to go down and see the monkey, girl? Girl?" He suddenly realized that he had never asked her name. It had not seemed important. Indeed, she had not seemed to have a name. She had not seemed like a name-having sort of person.
She seemed to know his thoughts. "Don't worry," she said. "Even if you knew it, you couldn't pronounce it. I think that I should like to see the organ grinder. Give me a penny, Mr. Todd, and I'll give you my embroidery."
"All right," he said. "The gentlemen might as well have something to look at as they're. . .shaved."
She laughed then, a sound like a bicycle horn, and turned down the steps, tossing the embroidery over her shoulder. Sweeney Todd flipped the coin towards her, and she caught it. "Goodbye, Mr. Todd."
Sweeney Todd did not say anything. Instead, he listened to her clatter down the stairs, and watched through the window as she lobbed his coin to the grimy organ grinder's equally grimy monkey, who did a tiny dance of pleasure. Then, Sweeney Todd began to tack the embroidery up on the wall, where all his customers could see.
The girl knocked the grimy slush of her boots. "I didn't realize it was snowing," she said to the organ grinder, feeling thankful for her thick black coat. "When I went in there it was summer."
"You go een," said the grimy, obviously foreign organ grinder, "who the fuck knows wheen you come out ageen?"
"Good point," said the girl.
"Where you goeeng now?"
"I don't know," said the girl.
"One more questeen."
"Make it quick."
"How old are you?"
She gave a weak smile. "As old as my tongue," she said, "and a little older than my teeth."
With love,
Kat
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Dear Humanity,
The good PPNers have taken me by the throat and ordered me to write V for Vendetta/PotO crossoverage. Well, who am I to deny them?
The Vicious Cabaret
Prolouge
The man in the mask was waiting. It was dark, and it was cold, and the fog of London seemed to permeate everywhere, like a thick gas. Men in the street shivered, reminded of half recalled news reports of gas ovens. But that was when there were news reports, other than the comforting, old leather Voice of Fate. But the fog did not reach behind the mask. The mask was smiling. The man in the mask was waiting.
The mask was the mask of a harlequin, smiling and frozen forever in its same position. It gave the impression of a terrifying amiability, the amiability of one who has been tortured too many times to let it stir him. That same amiability extended to other parts, more chilling parts. How little an effort it would take to stifle a life. What an amiable thought. What amiability. But you could not be sure. The mask covered everything. The man in the mask was waiting.
What he was waiting for no one could have said. The people on the street did not see him, did not see the paperback copy of Macbeth that he pulled from beneath his cloak. It was old, battered. It had been read many times.
"Good evening, London. It's nine o'clock and this is the Voice of Fate broadcasting on 275 and 285 on the medium wave. It is the fifth of the eleventh, nineteen-ninety-seven."
The man in the mask did not wait much longer, to hear the rest of the broadcast. He bent over his copy of Macbeth, opened it to a dog eared page. "Shakespeare," the man in the mask said softly. Hearing his own voice made him laugh, because he knew millions of people were hearing, right now, the Voice of Fate and believing it a hypnotic voice, a beautiful voice. What did they know? The Voice of Fate - of Lewis Prothero - was as insignificant as this government had now rendered the poetry that the man in the mask held in his hand.
The man in the mask murmured a few lines, reading words he knew by heart from the book. "Stones have been known to move, and trees to speak. . ." He trailed off, and stared for a moment at the rain. He smiled. Or perhaps it was just the mask.
"Remember, remember, the fifth of November. . ." said the man in the mask, and walked away on the streets of London, boots clicking smartly at the heel.
FIN
Sincerely,
Kat
The good PPNers have taken me by the throat and ordered me to write V for Vendetta/PotO crossoverage. Well, who am I to deny them?
The Vicious Cabaret
Prolouge
The man in the mask was waiting. It was dark, and it was cold, and the fog of London seemed to permeate everywhere, like a thick gas. Men in the street shivered, reminded of half recalled news reports of gas ovens. But that was when there were news reports, other than the comforting, old leather Voice of Fate. But the fog did not reach behind the mask. The mask was smiling. The man in the mask was waiting.
The mask was the mask of a harlequin, smiling and frozen forever in its same position. It gave the impression of a terrifying amiability, the amiability of one who has been tortured too many times to let it stir him. That same amiability extended to other parts, more chilling parts. How little an effort it would take to stifle a life. What an amiable thought. What amiability. But you could not be sure. The mask covered everything. The man in the mask was waiting.
What he was waiting for no one could have said. The people on the street did not see him, did not see the paperback copy of Macbeth that he pulled from beneath his cloak. It was old, battered. It had been read many times.
"Good evening, London. It's nine o'clock and this is the Voice of Fate broadcasting on 275 and 285 on the medium wave. It is the fifth of the eleventh, nineteen-ninety-seven."
The man in the mask did not wait much longer, to hear the rest of the broadcast. He bent over his copy of Macbeth, opened it to a dog eared page. "Shakespeare," the man in the mask said softly. Hearing his own voice made him laugh, because he knew millions of people were hearing, right now, the Voice of Fate and believing it a hypnotic voice, a beautiful voice. What did they know? The Voice of Fate - of Lewis Prothero - was as insignificant as this government had now rendered the poetry that the man in the mask held in his hand.
The man in the mask murmured a few lines, reading words he knew by heart from the book. "Stones have been known to move, and trees to speak. . ." He trailed off, and stared for a moment at the rain. He smiled. Or perhaps it was just the mask.
"Remember, remember, the fifth of November. . ." said the man in the mask, and walked away on the streets of London, boots clicking smartly at the heel.
FIN
Sincerely,
Kat
Dear Humanity,
We are in Utah, skiing. It is very white.
I was bored last night so decided to torture myself by writing some more sestinas. I asked my mother to give me a theme and six key words. She gave me "love conquers all," and the words hate, blood, fire, hope, care, and peace. I was feeling cynical and had been reading V for Vendetta, the comic book, so I was in the mood to write something full of blood and guts, and the sestina turned out very violently. See DISCLAIMER for further explanation.
If you haven't read V for Vendetta, let me take a moment to tell you something: You're a complete idiot. Go buy it this instant, and read it from cover to cover. I was a complete idiot myself until just yesterday, at which point I performed the recommended actions. Twice. (The reading, not the buying, though hey, you might as well buy two, I'm not against it.) I believe that V's obsession with the letter V got into the sestina, too.
Valhalla Sestina
"Love conquers all," they say. Means more than blood,
Than savage joy in haunting, hunting hate
More than old loyalties, born from white fire
And struck into shape, as smiths strike, with care.
But there are those who say, "There is no hope."
They have my lot. I don't believe in peace.
Life was simpler before we thought that fire
Would be our end. Before the thought of hope,
The endless war was not top full with hate,
For then we had an aim that made us care.
To kill! To kill! Just that - "to kill," was peace -
Our mantra and our state of mind was blood.
At least we had a mantra then, could care,
Instead of stewing in our own thick blood.
Someday I'll burst, and show the world my peace -
Valhalla, God of Gallows, Lord of Hate.
The world would understand. Oh, but I hope
Their instinct is recalled, sensing the hate.
Do you remember the Valhalla fire?
I remember how, in those times sans care,
We had such youthful, treasured, warlike hope
The world belonged to us, sang in our blood
Like sirens. It was strange, what drove us, hate
And yet not so. Love, maybe? It was peace.
Well, Orwell's party said that war was peace
I'll go further - war is our life, our blood,
It is our innocence, that we trust - hope -
That we'll regenerate in pheonix fire.
Eden was a battlefield fueled by hate
And yet not so. The apple - have a care!
We bite the apple. It tastes not of peace
But of indignity. Doomed to vague hope
Instead of battle waged on those we hate.
A cat declawed, and we have lost our fire.
Gods play tiddlywinks, don't seem to care
For a race that lost its love for songs of blood.
I've waited for the blood to wake, to care
Again for honest hate, but there's no hope
For hairless apes who found "peace," and lost fire.
Whew. Exhausted, much? Sestinas tire me out, seriously. It's like a math problem. Six stanzas, six lines, six key words, each line ending in a key word, and the whole bloody thing in iambic pentameter. I may just be a poetic masochist.
I was exhausted after that, so a palate cleanser was in order. Yay for limerick. They take little effort if you just want to screw around, so they're nice after sestinas. Yes, poetry writing is like working out. Ha. I should get a trainer. My brother was there, and we were writing limerick about our corresponding obsessions.
Darth Vader: The Limerick
There once was a Sith lord named Vader
And the gangstas all called him a hater
He had a black mask
And he killed with one grasp
Girls agreed that he was a bad dater.
Oh, hahahahaahahaha. Madly funny, I know, but not as good as -
Gerry!Phantom: The Limerick
I know this guy named Gerry!Phantom
With good hair, and a nice - this I'll grant - bum.
His fangirls are impressed
But the purists - depressed!
So they'll go watch Kay!Erik schtup Chris and mum.
Get it? 'Cos of Kay!Erik's Oedipus complex? Oh, come on. Hahaha. It's funny. Tough crowd, you.
And now for something a bit more depressing to send you on your way. Have some fruitcake, you'll be thankful for it soon. I'll wrap it up nicely and send you on your way with this poem. It's cold out there, don't think you won't need it, young 'un. Your Auntie Kat knows what's best for you.
Aces
You're holding all the aces, love,
But they're behind your back.
The ace of clubs, the ace of hearts
The ace of all you lack.
You're holding all the aces, love,
Blowing smoke into my eyes
With my powers of observation
This should have come as no surprise.
You're holding all the aces, love
I fell into your arms
You as innocent as I
Unaware of your own charms.
You're holding all the aces, love,
And cards aren't all you've touch'd
But also me, my very soul
Could tell you, true, as much.
You're holding all the aces, love
And now you want to leave
I haven't got the strength in me
To grant you a reprieve.
You're holding all the aces, love
A royal flush. I die.
I hope my corpse is cremated,
Ash rising to the sky.
Since I started this letter, it hasn't gotten any less white. I wonder if the rest of the world has disappeared, and it's just me in a ski lodge, typing a letter to no one.
Whitely,
Kat
We are in Utah, skiing. It is very white.
I was bored last night so decided to torture myself by writing some more sestinas. I asked my mother to give me a theme and six key words. She gave me "love conquers all," and the words hate, blood, fire, hope, care, and peace. I was feeling cynical and had been reading V for Vendetta, the comic book, so I was in the mood to write something full of blood and guts, and the sestina turned out very violently. See DISCLAIMER for further explanation.
If you haven't read V for Vendetta, let me take a moment to tell you something: You're a complete idiot. Go buy it this instant, and read it from cover to cover. I was a complete idiot myself until just yesterday, at which point I performed the recommended actions. Twice. (The reading, not the buying, though hey, you might as well buy two, I'm not against it.) I believe that V's obsession with the letter V got into the sestina, too.
Valhalla Sestina
"Love conquers all," they say. Means more than blood,
Than savage joy in haunting, hunting hate
More than old loyalties, born from white fire
And struck into shape, as smiths strike, with care.
But there are those who say, "There is no hope."
They have my lot. I don't believe in peace.
Life was simpler before we thought that fire
Would be our end. Before the thought of hope,
The endless war was not top full with hate,
For then we had an aim that made us care.
To kill! To kill! Just that - "to kill," was peace -
Our mantra and our state of mind was blood.
At least we had a mantra then, could care,
Instead of stewing in our own thick blood.
Someday I'll burst, and show the world my peace -
Valhalla, God of Gallows, Lord of Hate.
The world would understand. Oh, but I hope
Their instinct is recalled, sensing the hate.
Do you remember the Valhalla fire?
I remember how, in those times sans care,
We had such youthful, treasured, warlike hope
The world belonged to us, sang in our blood
Like sirens. It was strange, what drove us, hate
And yet not so. Love, maybe? It was peace.
Well, Orwell's party said that war was peace
I'll go further - war is our life, our blood,
It is our innocence, that we trust - hope -
That we'll regenerate in pheonix fire.
Eden was a battlefield fueled by hate
And yet not so. The apple - have a care!
We bite the apple. It tastes not of peace
But of indignity. Doomed to vague hope
Instead of battle waged on those we hate.
A cat declawed, and we have lost our fire.
Gods play tiddlywinks, don't seem to care
For a race that lost its love for songs of blood.
I've waited for the blood to wake, to care
Again for honest hate, but there's no hope
For hairless apes who found "peace," and lost fire.
Whew. Exhausted, much? Sestinas tire me out, seriously. It's like a math problem. Six stanzas, six lines, six key words, each line ending in a key word, and the whole bloody thing in iambic pentameter. I may just be a poetic masochist.
I was exhausted after that, so a palate cleanser was in order. Yay for limerick. They take little effort if you just want to screw around, so they're nice after sestinas. Yes, poetry writing is like working out. Ha. I should get a trainer. My brother was there, and we were writing limerick about our corresponding obsessions.
Darth Vader: The Limerick
There once was a Sith lord named Vader
And the gangstas all called him a hater
He had a black mask
And he killed with one grasp
Girls agreed that he was a bad dater.
Oh, hahahahaahahaha. Madly funny, I know, but not as good as -
Gerry!Phantom: The Limerick
I know this guy named Gerry!Phantom
With good hair, and a nice - this I'll grant - bum.
His fangirls are impressed
But the purists - depressed!
So they'll go watch Kay!Erik schtup Chris and mum.
Get it? 'Cos of Kay!Erik's Oedipus complex? Oh, come on. Hahaha. It's funny. Tough crowd, you.
And now for something a bit more depressing to send you on your way. Have some fruitcake, you'll be thankful for it soon. I'll wrap it up nicely and send you on your way with this poem. It's cold out there, don't think you won't need it, young 'un. Your Auntie Kat knows what's best for you.
Aces
You're holding all the aces, love,
But they're behind your back.
The ace of clubs, the ace of hearts
The ace of all you lack.
You're holding all the aces, love,
Blowing smoke into my eyes
With my powers of observation
This should have come as no surprise.
You're holding all the aces, love
I fell into your arms
You as innocent as I
Unaware of your own charms.
You're holding all the aces, love,
And cards aren't all you've touch'd
But also me, my very soul
Could tell you, true, as much.
You're holding all the aces, love
And now you want to leave
I haven't got the strength in me
To grant you a reprieve.
You're holding all the aces, love
A royal flush. I die.
I hope my corpse is cremated,
Ash rising to the sky.
Since I started this letter, it hasn't gotten any less white. I wonder if the rest of the world has disappeared, and it's just me in a ski lodge, typing a letter to no one.
Whitely,
Kat
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Dear Humanity,
You've probably been wondering where I've been. You know, the usual sorts of places. The places wizards used to go when they were looking for a quest. Behind the sky. On the other side of the rain.
Well, I've been doing various things. These will be explained, I hope, with these stories, poems, etc..
Leaning on a Lamp Post
I'm leaning on a lamp post
I'm living on a prayer
I'm the daughter of a daydream
I'm the lover of despair.
He comes into my bed at night
He pulls the covers back
He whispers love songs in my ear
Some sibilant sneak attack.
I'm a starving Paris artist
I'm a dying mother's scream
"One look tells you everything
Except what you have seen."
I'm doing disco dance steps
I'm shivering on the street
I'm down and out in terms of life
I've lost with the elite.
The unknown in the equation
I'm the cryptic hieroglyph
I wish I was stark black and white
My greatest want is this:
To be leaning on a lamp post
To be living on a prayer
As the children of our daydreams
With you wrapp'd round me there.
Fear my dumped fourteen year old angst! RAAAH!
I stayed up all night writing a sestina. I don't know if I like it.
Bluebeard Sestina
A coldness burns inside of me. Let it ache
And do not tell the world the hopeless truth -
Or shall I tell it you? To you, my love?
The stories of the torn apart, the rent
Half lies shown false, the corpses of the kiss.
We will have no more lies - it was a rape.
You took me soft and sighing, made me rent
And I knew not, and I believed in love
As you believed yourself. There was no truth
In all we knew. You say you grieve, you ache.
I doubt it not - who knew it was a rape?
Not I, I was entrancéd with your kiss.
Oh, wilt thou darkling leave me? Leave this truth
A bloody scene, caused by a trivial rape?
Oh, lies are kinder, then. A lie's a kiss
For selfishness. It leaves behind no ache,
No pain, no hurt, and yet no thing to love!
What good were your lies, then? My heart is rent.
But I could claim you back, that's the truth
Could have you in my own, subtler rape
I have wished to tear you apart, to rent
Limb from lovéd limb till naught's left but ache
That I hold for a treasured, evil love.
No, I want not your death. I crave your kiss.
Still, still, falls the quiet blacked rain, love
Pattering a penance, a raindrop rent
The sky before me, and I shook - God's truth! -
In anticipation of the new ache
That of the indecisive. Was it rape?
Or am I a fool to term so that kiss?
I must live with this everpresent ache
A wound half healed, unhealed but by a kiss
From those lips that I slandered, crying "Rape!"
Or was I right? Oh, God, but I am rent
In two, and double vision can't see truth.
Oh, let me look into your soul, my love!
Our rape had gone both ways, to own the truth
Doomed from the starting kiss, and we were rent.
Yet still I ache to say, "Goodbye, my love."
Kisses,
Kat
You've probably been wondering where I've been. You know, the usual sorts of places. The places wizards used to go when they were looking for a quest. Behind the sky. On the other side of the rain.
Well, I've been doing various things. These will be explained, I hope, with these stories, poems, etc..
Leaning on a Lamp Post
I'm leaning on a lamp post
I'm living on a prayer
I'm the daughter of a daydream
I'm the lover of despair.
He comes into my bed at night
He pulls the covers back
He whispers love songs in my ear
Some sibilant sneak attack.
I'm a starving Paris artist
I'm a dying mother's scream
"One look tells you everything
Except what you have seen."
I'm doing disco dance steps
I'm shivering on the street
I'm down and out in terms of life
I've lost with the elite.
The unknown in the equation
I'm the cryptic hieroglyph
I wish I was stark black and white
My greatest want is this:
To be leaning on a lamp post
To be living on a prayer
As the children of our daydreams
With you wrapp'd round me there.
Fear my dumped fourteen year old angst! RAAAH!
I stayed up all night writing a sestina. I don't know if I like it.
Bluebeard Sestina
A coldness burns inside of me. Let it ache
And do not tell the world the hopeless truth -
Or shall I tell it you? To you, my love?
The stories of the torn apart, the rent
Half lies shown false, the corpses of the kiss.
We will have no more lies - it was a rape.
You took me soft and sighing, made me rent
And I knew not, and I believed in love
As you believed yourself. There was no truth
In all we knew. You say you grieve, you ache.
I doubt it not - who knew it was a rape?
Not I, I was entrancéd with your kiss.
Oh, wilt thou darkling leave me? Leave this truth
A bloody scene, caused by a trivial rape?
Oh, lies are kinder, then. A lie's a kiss
For selfishness. It leaves behind no ache,
No pain, no hurt, and yet no thing to love!
What good were your lies, then? My heart is rent.
But I could claim you back, that's the truth
Could have you in my own, subtler rape
I have wished to tear you apart, to rent
Limb from lovéd limb till naught's left but ache
That I hold for a treasured, evil love.
No, I want not your death. I crave your kiss.
Still, still, falls the quiet blacked rain, love
Pattering a penance, a raindrop rent
The sky before me, and I shook - God's truth! -
In anticipation of the new ache
That of the indecisive. Was it rape?
Or am I a fool to term so that kiss?
I must live with this everpresent ache
A wound half healed, unhealed but by a kiss
From those lips that I slandered, crying "Rape!"
Or was I right? Oh, God, but I am rent
In two, and double vision can't see truth.
Oh, let me look into your soul, my love!
Our rape had gone both ways, to own the truth
Doomed from the starting kiss, and we were rent.
Yet still I ache to say, "Goodbye, my love."
Kisses,
Kat
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